Wednesday, February 1, 2012

The last couple of prompts haven't called me, so today, I listened to some music and contemplated the emotions of the songs- melody and lyrics. As the music disappeared into the background, my mind wandered, then arrived at a scene.

I don't know if anything will come of it, but it's there if I decide to continue.

152 words in the raw*:

He sat alone. The perfect picture of the tragic figure. His profile sharp against the lowering sun, which just kissed the horizon in a spectacular blaze of blinding color. He leaned forward; pressed his forehead against his palm. His dark hair, scrunched between splayed fingers that dug into his scalp, tumbling down his cheek.

What caused such despair? I felt it radiate out from him even at a couple dozen yards. I never knew such sadness myself, but I carried that heavy burden for many years now. The aching familiarity squeezed my guts up through my throat until I choked back a flood of tears.

His anguish, a potent crashing of waves on a tidal break, throttled me until I kneeled before it. Jagged little rocks cut through my jeans - another layer of pain. If I couldn’t crawl that small distance to reach him soon, I doubted my hold on sanity.

Tressa Green is the author of The Summer of the Frogs and Fragile Bones. The second novel in the seasons series, The Winter of the Birds, is in planning. A companion novel to Fragile Bones is in the works.
As well as having a passion for the written word, she is also an award winning pencil artist. Tressa currently resides as a full time writer in the temperamental clime of North-central Indiana along with her husband and three children.